by Kris Tualla
And then, with a final whoosh, the storm eased.
Reid told Remy and me to wait in the crawlspace while he made certain the tornado was truly gone. He stood in the square floor opening, listening for a pace, and then heaved himself into the cabin. He looked out the door for a moment. Then he walked through the cabin’s single room, opening the shutters and looking out.
He said, “You can come out now.”
I climbed out of the hole and stood next to my husband. He took hold of my hand, and his palm was damp. Together we went outside to see what the tornado had left us.
Posy and the horses cowered on the ground, but they were apparently not hurt. The sheep began to bleat when they saw me, and I crossed the wide yard to assure them that they were safe.
The rooster, of whom I was still not particularly fond, strutted from the forest and crowed, calling his hens.
The chickens emerged from the brush, approaching with hesitant steps and franticly bobbing heads. One hen was missing.
Reid squeezed my hand, and said, “This is why I want a stone house with a slate roof.”
He got no argument from me.
We found the missing chicken finally, trapped under a fallen branch. Remy took her to clean and butcher. We will have fried chicken for supper.
April 13th
I have not had a letter from my parents in two months. It takes so long for our mail to travel the nine-hundred miles to Philadelphia, that any questions asked by either correspondent take half a year to answer.
For that reason, I merely send them what news there might be, describing my life in as amusing terms as I can. I know my mother will be horrified to read my tales of cooking squirrel, and my father no doubt worries about my safety. With that in mind, I don’t dare tell him about the Indians.
Two men came through our clearing not long after the tornado. Reid told Remy and me to stay inside the cabin while he went out to talk to them. I observed them through the shutters, curious because they were nothing like anything I had seen before.
They had partially shaved scalps, with their remaining long black hair wrapped with colored thread and adorned with feathers. They wore neckpieces strung with what looked to be either teeth or claws. Perhaps both. Their clothing was made of leather—Reid called it buckskin—and they carried beautifully woven blankets over their shoulders.
While I watched Reid try to communicate with them, they appeared friendly enough. My husband motioned for them to approach the cabin. I stepped away from the window and quickly settled myself at the table with some mending. When Reid led the men inside the cabin, I thought that Remy looked so frightened I thought he might lose control and wet himself.
Reid said, “We are giving our friends some food for their travels, Remy. What do we have that might go well?”
Remy said, “We have biscuits and cheese.”
Reid nodded, and said, “Please wrap some in this.”
He handed Remy a piece of soft leather which belonged to one of the Indians. Remy put four biscuits and a chunk of cheese (made by Beatrice’s slave girl) in the leather, and folded the flaps over the food. Remy gave the packet to Reid, and Reid gave it to the Indians. The Indians nodded and smiled.
Then one of them reached into his pack and pulled out a small knife made of bone, which he held out to me. I looked at Reid, unsure of what to do.
He said, “Accept it, Prinsesse. It is a trade for the food.”
I reached out my hand, and the Indian laid the knife across my palm. I smiled back at him and hoped he did not see my lips quivering.
I said, “Thank you.”
And then they left.
I said, “Have you met Indians before?”
Reid said, “Yes. Some tribes fought the English with us, and some other tribes fought against us.”
I asked, “Did those men fight?”
Reid shrugged and said, “I did not ask them.”
And that was the end of that.
April 6th
While the house’s foundation cures, Reid has begun preparing to build the barn. He is placing it at the bottom of our clearing, far enough from the house that we should not be disturbed by flies or odor when we have our windows open.
He wants the bottom level to have stone walls and has ordered generously for the house, expecting to have enough left over to build up five or six feet on the barn walls. He has been gathering trees felled by tornadoes to use for the upper walls, and using the draft horses to pull them into the clearing to dry in the sun. Eventually, he will add the logs of our cabin to his stockpile.
Reid showed me his plans. He will have a tack room and eight stalls, the walls of which will be constructed from the milled floor boards of our cabin. He says he will need to order more milled wood for the floor of the hayloft.
I love to watch my husband as he discusses his ideas. When he does so, he grows so animated. The blue in his eyes pushes aside the gray, and his eyes pinch at the corners, which makes them seem to sparkle.
I thought Reid was handsome before I even saw his eyes, and the overall effect of his excitement makes my heart beat faster.
I am even more moved when he asks my opinion. To know that my husband not only loves, but respects me in spite of my many and obvious failures, always soothes my soul during my darkest moments—which continue to visit me every month without fail.
April 21st
I swear I am going to kill that damned rooster if he pecks at me one more time.
May 1st
The first order of stone for our house is supposed to be delivered today. Reid does not know what time to expect the men, so he is riding the draft stallion toward Saint Louis (there is only a single road to follow) to meet the wagons and lead them here.
I find that I am so excited about the prospect, that I cannot make myself attend to any one task for any reasonable length of time. I keep casting my gaze toward the road, and straining to hear the sounds of wagons creaking and tack jangling.
I never anticipated that something as mundane as quarried rock could make me so giddy, but it undoubtedly has. Sometimes my ongoing transformation from pampered city princess to wilderness land grant wife astounds me. I expect I will read this journal someday in my dotage and marvel that I even survived.
While the rock and concrete foundation was curing, Reid dug out the root cellar which will be at the back of the stone house, and within easy reach of the kitchen. He made it about seven feet deep so that he, at nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, will be able to stand upright inside. He said the root cellar will double as a storm haven when the tornadoes move through, and he wants to be comfortable when he is closeted inside it.
It is a wonderful thing to be able to construct a house and have it meet your own needs in the manner that you wish it to. I had never thought about such a thing before.
In Norway and Denmark the buildings are already centuries old, so for the most part the residents make use of the rooms in their original purposes. In Philadelphia, the houses are not so old as that, but I was not yet alive when my parents built their house.
I guess I always assumed that houses simply appeared in their pre-set state. Now, to be deciding along with Reid how large the rooms should be, and where to put the fireplaces and windows, etc. has been quite exhilarating! I cannot wait to see it finished.
I hear the wagons!
A Very Important Post Script: The stone mason brought newspapers from Saint Louis because they proclaimed very important news—on April 15th, the United States of America signed a peace treaty with England to end the War of the Revolution. Our country is finally freed!
Reid and I rode to the Athertons just after sunset (once all the stone was unloaded) to give them one of the newspapers. We celebrated together over wine, brandy, and cake.
May 8th
I am in awe.
Reid met several men in church, and they discussed helping each other build their houses. So when, on the day after the stone was delivered, eight men arrived at
sunrise to help build our house, I was astounded. I will try to document all of their names, in the event that the reader might be acquainted either with them, or their offspring:
~ James Atherton, of course. Our friend and neighbor.
~ Jedidiah Brown, the man building the general store and post office in Cheltenham.
~ Tom Smith-Peddington, builder of the church and someday-turned-schoolhouse.
~ John McGovern, a new land owner who I guessed to be no more than twenty-one. His young wife, Beth, came along to help Remy and I feed the workers, much to my delighted surprise.
~ Ashton Caldecott, another new land owner. He was not yet married.
~ Murphy and Manny Johnson, a pair of free Negro brothers trying to establish themselves here.
~ Stephen Smith, who arrived with all manner of building aids: levels, heavy string, scissors, and an instrument he said was for surveying and judging alignment from a distance. (I had never seen such a thing, but Reid—my architect husband—was extremely excited about it.)
In only one week, the structure has already begun to look like a house. Half of the men are working to cut and shape the heavy crossbeams which will support the stone walls and be the base for the floors, the other half are setting the stones with mortar—standing on the rough-hewn joists as they are installed.
They work from just after sunup, to nearly sundown, before returning to their homes to sleep. I sent Remy to Beatrice, asking to buy any kegs of ale she might be willing to share. I could not think of another way to show my gratitude. Reid grinned when he saw what I had done. But he assured me that his time would come, and he would disappear for days on end to help our neighbors in return.
He also said that when the house was finished, we need to have a party for everyone in Cheltenham, whether they helped with the construction or not. I smiled, pleased by the prospect. I do know how to entertain well. At least one skill from my previous life will be of use here in Missouri.
May 31st
Our house has a roof. Reid will ride to Saint Louis tomorrow to order the slate shingles, and will return by nightfall. As I walk through the structure, consisting of an outer wall with fireplaces and chimneys, floor joists, crossbeams held up by the skeleton of future walls, a rough staircase, window openings, and visible rafters twenty-five feet or so over my head, I am amazed.
Even in its incomplete state, this house feels like a home to me, and my pride in my husband’s abilities to design such a thing swells warmly in my breast. I do love that man.
June 3rd
Today I planted a garden: squashes and gourds, potatoes, peas, carrots, and all manner of herbs which Remy suggested. He wants us to plant an apple tree and a red maple tree, so Reid will try to find them on our next trip into Saint Louis.
June 17th
Today I built a fence around the remainders of my garden. We will have rabbit stew for supper.
June28th
There are five men clambering all over the roof of our stone house affixing the slate shingles, and Remy and I are making preparations for a barbecue supper to feed them when they are done. Our chickens have proven quite fertile, so we are going to cook a few of them over a fire on a rack made of iron—another purchase Remy insisted upon—and he will brush the skins with a mixture of sugar and spices while they roast. Though it sounds odd, it also sounds delicious at the same time.
When it comes to cooking, I have learned to trust Remy without question. He is so skilled that he could easily find work as a chef in some of the best restaurants in Saint Louis. I will not ever suggest this, of course, as I do not want to return to our previous and precarious state of trying to survive on my meager kitchen skills. Yes, I can now fry an egg and leave the yolk runny, but a steady diet of fried eggs will not do.
In the meantime, Remy has broken the necks of the chickens with a quick twist of his wrist, and plunged them into boiling water. It is my job to remove the feathers and stuff the fluffy things into a sack, to be used later in pillows or mattresses.
While killing a bird with my bare hands is rather disagreeable, I do believe I might prefer it to my current task.
July 15th
Jedidiah Brown has opened the General Store! Built of milled wood, its construction was accomplished more swiftly than our house—especially with Reid working there instead of here at times. I cannot begrudge the man, since Mister Brown has aided us so generously.
And, because he will be stocking many of the items for which we previously needed to drive ten miles into Saint Louis to procure. To have a bag of salt or sugar only a mile away is heaven. The post office makes me just as happy, because my correspondence with my parents will be more easily managed.
Though Reid is very good about writing to his parents, I also write to Dagny and Martin. I, of course, invite Reid's parents to visit us as well, though twelve hundred miles over land from Boston is a daunting distance.
Even sailing south from Boston, around Florida, and on to the mouth of the Mississippi River is a major journey—only to then board flat keelboats and be pushed and pulled north against the river’s current to reach St Louis.
My husband and I have discussed this, and we have accepted the fact that we may never see any of our parents again.
And yet, that is the fate of almost all of those who have chosen to make this move and claim this land. We are not alone in our loneliness, as odd as that sounds. I find that we are creating a family of sorts here, linking arms with our far-flung neighbors to create a close community.
I know for a fact that Reid has grown to love James as a brother, and vice versa. The men are great companions, and neither would hesitate to give the other the very clothes off their body if need be.
Beatrice and I have not grown quite so close. Neither of us has sisters, so I do wonder if being unaccustomed to intimate female companionship has anything to do with that. More likely is the claim on our time which our economic differences dictate. That, and her army of slaves.
I should take a moment to explain Reid’s viewpoint on slavery. He abhors it.
On many evenings he has ranted to me about the impossibility of one human being owning another. I told him that while writing our Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia, Thomas Jefferson tried to insert some words to that effect into the document, but the southern states, led by North Carolina, refused to sign if he did.
And James and Beatrice are from North Carolina.
I know my husband understands that his new friend has been raised up in a society which accepts the idea that Negroes are in some way lesser creatures than the white man.
And yet when James worked alongside Murphy and Manny, neither Reid nor I can understand why he did not recognize the brothers’ fine intelligence and quick wit. Both men can read and write, and their casual discussion during their labor betrayed both a broad vocabulary and depth of knowledge.
It is a mystery which Reid sadly knows he cannot solve. At the least, the Atherton slaves are well seen to. James would never allow mistreatment of any kind.
August 4th
Today Reid and I have been married for one full year. We are riding to Saint Louis to spend two glorious nights at the Saint Louis Auberge Hotel. And on the morrow, he will take me shopping to order furnishings for the stone house.
Reid was practically destitute when we met. A Continental soldier, he was owed considerable back-pay, as were almost all of the men. I was able to use my influence in Philadelphia to see that he was finally paid. He used his funds to move to Missouri.
When I married him, my father made arrangements to transfer my inheritance’s interest earnings to a bank in Saint Louis twice a year. Because we were delayed by our rural circumstances, and unable to create an account in a suitable establishment until this spring, two payments arrived in July.
I feel as rich as a princess now, and will gladly use the money to complete our home.
Because I have spent nearly ten months without them, we plan to order the windows first.
Again, my situation shocks me and makes me laugh. I don’t give a thought to silk dresses or china tea sets, but to panes of glass and wooden casings.
Who is this woman which I have become? I scarcely recognize myself anymore.
Reid is calling me. It is time to leave.
August 7th
Saint Louis is my favorite city in the entire world. More specifically, the Saint Louis Auberge Hotel. There is something so very special about loving my husband well and in luxury, that I cannot adequately describe it. I have to admit that I do not pity women who have never had this experience, because if they did, they would spend the rest of their lives in misery, yearning to repeat it.
